The Reverend sat in the back of the police cruiser and watched Roy disappear around a corner.  She prayed Roy wasn't involved.  The officers turned in their seats to look back at her.

     “How long have you known Mr. Porter?” Officer Thompson asked.

     “About five years.  I don't ... I can't believe he's involved in these horrible murders.”

     “He's known all the victims, Reverend.”

     “Yes, but so did I.”

     “You said he held open animosity toward Daniel Sterns.  A long running feud.  I'm not saying he killed the man, but he's certainly a prime suspect.”

     “But he and Willie were the best of friends.”

     “They could have had an argument.  You know how quickly these people's tempers flare.”

     “But--”

     “I'm just saying it's a possibility.”

     “I understand that,” the Reverend said.  “But I don’t believe it for a heartbeat.  Roy’s a good man.”

     “Look, all we want you to do is keep an eye on him.  Keep us up to date on his activities.”

     “Very well,” she said.  But she didn't like it.  She got out of the police car and walked up the steps to the mission.  She had a sermon to prepare.

+++

     Jim's house was a good five miles from the mission--quite a hike for Roy.  He'd considered himself old from the time he broke the fifty year barrier seven years back.  Half a century and then some of life.  He walked along the sidewalk watching fancy cars pass him by.  Businessmen stared at him like he was from another planet.  He stared right back at them.  He knew they didn't really notice him as long as he wasn't in their neighborhood, but he liked to practice paranoia.  It kept him alert.  He could have used a ride, but he didn't bother to stick his thumb out.

     Roy turned down Jim's street.  The house was hidden from the road by trees and overgrowth.  Jim didn't care much for company.  Not after what had gone down.

     Knowing Jim wouldn't answer the front door, Roy walked around the gravel driveway that circled behind the house.  The front yard looked like hell, but the back yard looked like the Garden of Eden.  Jim owned a full acre of land and had put it to good use.  He maintained a huge garden and everywhere Roy looked there were fruit trees.  In the summertime it was a beautiful sight.  Now, with winter closing in, it looked sad and lonely.

     Jim's Harley stood guard next to the house and Roy was careful not to touch it as he passed--Jim was sensitive about that bike.  Roy had a feeling that touching the motorcycle was like signing your own death warrant.  He stepped onto the back porch, took a deep breath and knocked hard on the oak door.  It swung open.

     “Jim?” he called.  “It's old Roy Porter.  Remember me?”  He peered into the darkness and slowly walked in.

     Cold steel pressed against Roy's throat.

     “You're lucky.  I do remember.”

     Roy recognized Jim's voice and he felt damn lucky when the blade moved away.

     Roy ran his hand across his throat relieved to find no blood.  “You always leave the door open?”

     “Yeah,” Jim said and slipped the knife into his boot.  “If someone wants in, a locked door isn't going to stop them.”

     He hadn't changed much since Roy had last seen him.  He still wore T-shirts and faded jeans.  His beard was a little longer and a little wilder.  His brown hair was touched with gray at the temples, but his steel-blue eyes still looked through a man like he was made of glass.

     The smell of beans cooking hung thick in the air.  Jim nodded at Roy, then turned.  Roy followed him out of the kitchen and into the living room.  Sunlight streamed through the window.  There were no curtains.  Oil lamps were scattered here and there along with a half dozen used candles.

     Jim sat on the floor with his back against the wall and reached for his beat up acoustic guitar.  He motioned for Roy to sit down, then strummed a few chords, closing his eyes and relaxing.  He placed his hand on the strings bringing them to silence.

     “I know why you're here,” he said.

     “Then you heard about the fellas?”

     “I knew.”

     “You figure it's the same as before?”

     Jim nodded and strummed the guitar again.

     “Well, why ain't you done something about it?” Roy asked.

     Jim's brow furrowed and he stared Roy down.  “I'm not the patron saint of winos.  This is dangerous shit, Roy.  Besides, it's none of my business until someone asks me to help.”

     “That's why I'm here.  We need your help.  I might be meeting the maker soon if you don't do something.  And believe me, I ain't ready to go!”

     “Nobody is, but we usually don't get much say.”

     “I know old Willie didn't,” Roy said.  “You remember Willie, don't you?”

     “Yeah,” Jim said.

     “He died this morning.”  Roy hesitated, then said, “Snakes.”

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